


So This Is How It Ends

by KingTyrell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Kink Meme, M/M, Old!Sherlock, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-14 01:01:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2171970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingTyrell/pseuds/KingTyrell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for kink meme prompt:<br/>Sherlock Holmes, 93 years old, retired and plagued by an unsolved case from 50 years ago: John Watson's disappearance.</p><p>http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/22393.html?thread=132075641</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” the weathered voice asks.  
“Sorry?” Robbie replies, confused.  
“Oh come now, your posture clearly says military, so where were you stationed Afghanistan or Iraq?”  
It takes Robbie a minute of startled amazement before he can respond “Neither, we haven’t had troops in either of those places for decades. I was part of a peace keeping mission in North Korea.”  
“Really? Damn. I am getting old” Mr. Holmes grumbles  
“Pardon me for saying sir, but I think you passed ‘getting’ a long time ago” Robbie says, then immediately regrets it. But Mr. Holmes looks up at him with clouded eyes and a wry smile.  
“I suppose you’re right” he sighs “you look so much like him” he says more to himself than to Robbie.  
“Like who, sir?” Robbie asks.  
“Whom.” Is the only response he gets, and Mr. Holmes turns to pick at the tray Robbie had set in front of him with his fork. Robbie can see that the conversation is over, and he has other meals to dole out, so he leaves Mr. Holmes starting sadly at his plate of what amounts to little more than mush.  
Later he asks one of the nurses about Mr. Holmes.  
“He talked to you, newbie?” she says, nonplussed.  
“Yeah” Robbie replies “I suppose he doesn’t do that much?”  
“Well,” the nurse says “he doesn’t suffer in silence that’s for sure. Most people don’t take the ‘Let us know if there’s anything at all we can do to make your stay more pleasant’ quite so literally, but, I mean, never heard of him talking to anyone voluntarily if it’s not a demand.”  
“Do you know who he was, before…” Robbie gestures at the elderly milling about the nursing home.  
“Not really” she says “I think he was some kind of detective, worked for the police or something, but that’s about the extent of it.”  
“Thanks” Robbie says, and decides to ask Mr. Holmes about it when supper roles around.

To his surprise, Mr. Holmes does answer when Robbie asks “So I heard from a nurse that you used to be a detective, did you work for Scotland yard? My cousin works there.”  
Mr. Holmes snorts “I was a consulting detective, only one in the world, I invented the job”  
“So like a P.I.” Robbie says  
“No, no I was brought in for the cases they were too thick to solve on their own.” Mr. Holmes says  
“But the police don’t consult amateurs.” Robbie retorts. Mr. Holmes turns his head to look at Robbie sharply and stares at him a long while replying sternly “I wasn’t an amateur” before turning to his tray in a way that clearly indicates that Robbie should leave. 

 

Mr. Holmes’ room is empty and Robbie does not see him the next day, nor the day after. Had he not known the nursing home was in high demand and they would have cleaned out the room by now, Robbie would have feared the worst right away. A day later, when Robbie makes his morning rounds, he’s please to see the door to Mr. Holmes’ room is open signaling his return. He knock’s twice before entering as is the nursing home’s policy, and is carful to avoid the IV as he moves to set up the tray over Mr. Holmes’ bed. It is only when he set the bowl of porridge on the tray, that Mr. Holmes looks at him with glazed, unfocused eyes.  
“John?” he whispers “My dear John. It’s been so long.” He slowly brings a shaking hand to cup Robbie’s cheek “I’ve missed you so much.”  
Robbie is startled to see the beginnings of tears forming in Mr. Holmes’ eye. Mr. Holmes wets his lips “Where have you been all these years?”  
Robbie gently removes the hand from his face “Mr. Holmes, I’m not John, I’m Robbie the new volunteer. We spoke yesterday, do you remember?”  
But Mr. Holmes does not seem to hear him, and to Robbie’s alarm, appears to be getting increasingly agitated.  
“Where were you?” he demands, voice no longer a whisper “what happened to you? Where did you go!”  
With surprising strength, he reaches out to grab Robbie’s face again, this time with both hands, and in doing so, he dislodges the IV.  
“I looked for so long, John!” he shouts “I tried so hard to find you!”  
Robbie, frightened, stumbles backward, and slams the nurse call button. Mr. Holmes makes a feeble lunge after him, but gets stuck part way over the guard rail. He’s sobbing in earnest now tears and snot running down his wrinkled face “Please, John! Don’t go! Don’t leave me again!” he cries  
To Robbie’s relief, two nurses appear before he has to respond and shepherd him out of the room. Shaken, he walks down the hall away from Mr. Holmes’ pitiful calls for John. 

Robbie can privately admit to himself the next day that he’s nervous about returning to Mr. Holmes’ room. He could have easily asked to another food delivery route, but he’d managed North Korea, he could survive a 93 year old man.  
“I suppose I owe you an explanation” Mr. Holmes says the moment Robbie steps into his room, and Robbie cannot contain his sigh of relief. If Mr. Holmes notices, he shows no evidence of it.  
“I wouldn’t ask that of you” Robbie says. Mr. Holmes looks thoughtful at that.  
“But you’d like to know.” He says, and Robbie nods. “Besides, I’m old and I’m dying. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Tell your story before you go or some rot?”  
Robbie barks out a startled laugh before regaining his compose. “But why me? You don’t even know me.”  
Mr. Holmes stares at him a long moment and Robbie has the curious sensation of being unwrapped by the man’s gaze.  
“You remind me of him” Mr. Holmes says at last “Not only in appearance, though to old eyes the resemblance is striking, but I imagine that is mostly my eyes, your nose is wrong and your ears aren’t big enough, and you’re too tall. But the military posture, and your frankness remind me of when I first met him. And you’re wrong, I know plenty about you, enough to be going on anyway. For example, I know that your staying with a relative who has a cat.”  
“And how could you possibly know that?” Robbie asks indignantly.  
“Easy, your gait and posture indicate that you’ve returned from your service quite recently, as does the fact that you’re volunteering here instead of getting a paying job. No job means no money outside of your pension. You could be staying with a friend, but you’re a man who volunteers to help the elderly, a necessary but undesirable task, which would indicate some generosity of spirit. You’d feel bad about leaning on a friend too long without paying any kind of rent, and most of your pension goes towards food and clothing because, but as you’ve recently taken up a volunteer position, you’re not going to be able to pay rent anytime soon which means a relative, probably a close one, sister I’d imagine. As for the cat, you show up everyday in my room with orange hair on the bottom of your trouser legs but nowhere else, dog hair doesn’t come in that shade. Therefore, cat hair on your legs where it has rubbed up against you, but nowhere else meaning you don’t have a close enough relationship to the cat to pick it up, nor do you spend enough time with it for its hair to get all over your clothes. I’d say it was just a neighbor’s cat, but the hair has been their every time I see you which would seem to imply you live with the cat.” Mr. Holmes finishes his speech with an almost endearingly smug grin.  
“Wow,” Robbie says, stunned “that was… amazing.”  
The grin is wiped away and replaced with wide-eyed shock, and then there’s a hint of a smile almost heartbreaking in its sincerity.  
“Here.” With a trembling arthritic hand, Mr. Holmes gives him a notecard. On it, in a nearly illegible scrawl is a URL and a set of numbers.  
“Go home and read everything, and tomorrow, I will tell you about John.” 

 

Hours later, Robbie sits on his bed with his laptop and types in the URL for John Watson’s blog. When It loads, he gets to a page containing only a password box with the hint: “Gave my life meaning.”. Robbie stares at the notecard in bewilderment for few moments before typing 29012010 into the box and clicks enter. 

The last entry on the blog, and the one is titled simple “John” and when Robbie clicks on it, it takes him to a short entry that reads “John if you see this, please contact me. I need to know you’re alright.” there’s a phone number beneath. Robbie wonders if the number is still relevant. Given the hosting, the format, and how long it took the blog to configure, no one’s touched this place for a long time. Robbie makes his ways through the posts one by one reading everything including the (sometimes quite long) stretches of comments. Robbie enjoys reading about wild adventures these two men went on and on occasion finds himself laughing aloud. He hasn’t felt glee like this since he was a child reading adventure stories. 

Robbie actually gasps allows when he encounters a post titled simply “Sherlock” and reads Watson’s loving marriage proposal finishing with the self-deprecating “If you’re not interested please delete this post, and we will never talk about it.”. He scroll’s down to see Sherlock’s “Yes!” as the first comment, followed by John posting “You’ve already told me that you ridiculous man, but I suppose it’s nice to have in writing” and then a flood of congratulatory comments from friends, family, and fans alike. Robbie chuckles when he reads John’s comment complaining that he had made the post private but Sherlock had posted it to the public, and then Sherlock’s response that they were going to tell everyone anyway, and wasn’t this more expedient? Besides, shouldn’t he be able to brag a little? Things got pretty mushy from there.

Robbie is up until the early hours of the morning, but he finishes reading everything and goes to sleep wondering what tomorrow will bring. 

 

“Mr. Holmes?” Robbie calls gently as he walks into the room: finished with his shift and ready to listen.  
“Ah, Robbie” Mr. Holmes replies “You may as well call me Sherlock.”  
Robbie nods in conformation.  
“So,” Robbie prompts after a weighty pause “John Watson”  
Mr. Holmes, no, Sherlock, takes a deep inward breath  
“John,” He begins “Was a friend of mine”  
Robbie raises his eyebrows at that and Sherlock catches it.  
“Yes, yes, I know you read the blog. John was many things to me: my soulmate , my affianced, my partner, my conductor of light, but fundamentally he was always my friend. I thought for a long time about how much I wanted to tell you and what, and I believe I will begin a few years after the dissolution of John’s marriage.”  
“About that,” Robbie interrupts, earning him a stern look from Sherlock “What happened to Mary and the baby?”  
“Confidential.” Sherlock says “Mycroft’s been dead a great many years, but I think it’s best if I take that with me to the grave. But I digress. I think I’ll begin with when John and I finally got on the same page” 

Sherlock genuinely hadn’t meant to get a room with only one bed on for the one night of their brief trip to Lancaster; he just hadn’t been paying attention when booking the room. The case had been solved in a disappointingly brief five hours which had meant that he would actually be going to bed that night. He had been surprised when John hadn’t protested the sleeping arrangements.  
They washed up and settled down for the night. They were both tired because they had to take an early train, and John quickly dropped off to sleep. Despite his fatigue, Sherlock was determined to stay up so he could memorize every detail of John sleeping beside him. He wanted to encode it so thoroughly in his mind so that on the loneliest of nights he could pretend that John was right there beside him. (Later, one of his biggest regrets would be that he’d never finished what he started). Having not intended to sleep, Sherlock was surprised to wake up many hours later. He was even more surprised to find himself completely wrapped around John with his nose buried in John’s hair and John’s arms loosely around his waist. He was stuck, unsure of what to do. He certainly didn’t want to move, but if John woke and found them like this, would that not be a violation of his friend’s trust? Wouldn’t things be awkward the next morning? After all, this wasn’t the kind of thing that flatmates did, it just wasn’t on. Sherlock was pulled out of his thoughts by John’s arms tightening around him and John’s low grumble of “Stop thinking, Sherlock, and go back to sleep.”  
And to Sherlock’s continuing surprise, he did. 

Sherlock awoke alone to the sound of the shower. He rolled over to the warmth that John had left lingering in the sheets and pulled John’s pillow to his chest. It was with a pang of nervousness that he remembered the last night had not, in fact, been a particularly lovely fantasy he had concocted to help himself sleep, but rather, had actually happened. He couldn’t help but squeeze the pillow tighter to his chest wondering what this would mean in terms of his relationship with John. John had, after all, clearly been at least somewhat aware of the fact that the person he was cuddling was Sherlock, and he had shuffled closer instead of pushing the way which surely must be a good sign. Sherlock needn’t have worried. The didn’t talk about it, nor had Sherlock expected them to, but their relationship did change (albeit not as quickly as Sherlock would have liked). They touched more often, and the touches were casual, no longer fraught with the tension. It was simple things: a brush of fingers, a hand on the shoulder. Sometime after a long case when they were tired, they’d lean on each other, heads and shoulders pressed together. While it was the happiest Sherlock had been in a long time, he couldn’t help but want more. They were almost there, so close to where Sherlock wanted them to be, but he just couldn’t bring himself to make a move. Rejection no longer even felt like a possibility and he chastised himself for being a coward, but he just couldn’t bring himself to put everything on the line like that.  
When it did finally happen, it did so in what Sherlock thought was an unfittingly small moment. As ridiculous and as sentimental as it was, somewhere in the back of his mind, Sherlock always felt that his and John’s first kiss would be some big epic moment in which the entire universe will align. And it is, but it’s a universe contained in a joke told over breakfast. It’s another one of Sherlock’s regrets that he doesn’t remember what he said to make John laugh like that, but John’s entire face lights up and he looks so happy and beautiful in the morning sunlight and Sherlock could no longer bear it, so he leaned forward and kissed John. John was momentarily startled, but an instant later with a sigh of “Finally” he curled his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and kissed him back. 

Things were good after that, really good. Sherlock couldn’t imagine being happier. He had everything he’d wanted and so much he’d never thought he’d need. He loved the casual intimacy of it all. Loved running his hand through John’s hair as he passed him in the kitchen. Loved the way he could creep up behind John and press open mouthed kisses to John’s neck that would make him moan. Loved dancing with John. Sometimes late at night, he would pull John to his chest and they would just sway and Sherlock’s heart would feel fit to burst and the joy he felt would be consuming and overwhelming, and nothing could touch their bubble of happiness as they danced together in the quiet of the night. 

It happened one evening when after they had returned from Sherlock’s parents’ house where they had been making wedding plans. John had gone out to get takeout and didn’t return.  
“Lestrade, John’s missing.”  
“Have you tried calling him?”  
“Have I tried–? Of course I have! He went out to get takeout at the Indian restaurant down the road four hours ago. He took his phone, it was on and charged. Now get your fucking people on it or whatever department handles this kind of thing!”  
“On it now. I’ll meet you at the restaurant and we’ll try to find out where he was taken from.”

There was woefully little evidence: a dropped bag of takeaway was all they could find. That didn’t stop Sherlock from working day in and day out to find John. He scoured the city, called in every favour, put out offers of massive rewards to his homeless network or anyone who could offer any information about the disappearance of John Watson. Scotland Yard put their best people on the case, even Mycroft offered some of his people and access to any CCTV recordings. Sherlock barely slept, barely ate, and was a haggard mess. When a month had passed and there were no leads, the support steadily trickled off until Sherlock was the only one still looking. 

“You really need to eat something, dear.”  
“No time, I have to keep looking.”  
“It’s been three months Sherlock, and nothing’s turned up, don’t you think you should take a break.”  
“I have to keep looking. I can’t stop. I can’t— I can’t—“  
“Oh, Sherlock. Come here, I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”  
“But what if I don’t Mrs. Hudson? What if I can’t find him?”  
“There, there, everything will be alright. Just rest, have something to eat, it’ll all be there in the morning. I’m sure John can wait one more day.” 

He never really gave up looking for John, not really anyway. Eventually, when there hadn’t been any new information for months, he started focusing on other cases. There were days when it was more than he could bear, when he’d lie on the floor wondering if he curled in on himself tightly enough he’d vanish completely.  
It was never really the same which wasn’t a surprise, how could he be expected to get over John? He took cases for many years before he retired, and still dabbled after for as long as his old bones would let him. But the joy had been sucked out of it and there were so many days it felt like he was just working to pass the time. Sometimes, rarely but it did happen, he would get caught up in a particularly good puzzle and right at the hight of his brilliance he would turn to tell John and-  
No one was there. And the air would rush out of him as if he’d been punched in the stomach. He often didn’t finish those cases. He’d turn over what evidence he’d found to the yard and go home and sit in John’s chair and mourn the life that had been torn away from him.  
Sherlock remembered quite clearly sitting in Bart’s dissecting a tongue and overhearing Molly speaking to her eight-year-old daughter.  
“Mummy,” the girl (Lucy or something like that) had said “Why does Mr. Holmes always look so sad?”  
And Molly had replied “Because he’s lost someone he loves very much”  
“Is his friend dead like Mummy’s corpses?” the girl asked.  
“Yes.” Molly said quietly.  
Sherlock stood abruptly, knocking the chair over. “Don’t say that!” he shouted at them. “We never found any evidence for that! He might not be–– He could be–– John might still be alive!”  
And the little girl had started sobbing and Molly looked like she might soon as well. So Sherlock fled. 

“I know he’s dead.” Sherlock says, coming to the end of his story “By this point anyway he has to be. But I can’t help but expect him to walk through that door. I’ve never entirely managed to shake the feeling that it could be any minute now that I’ll see him again. And when you came into my room on the first day with your hair and your posture, just for a moment I thought… but no, he’s dead. I know that.” 

Things continue steadily on after that. Robbie goes about his day to day, bringing food to the patients, and, on occasion, chatting with Sherlock. It’s clear that Sherlock’s already fragile health is inexorably declining, but neither of them mentions it.  
A couple of months pass and one day Robbie is bringing lunch to Sherlock who today does not acknowledge him. Robbie doesn’t think much of it, it’s happens from time to time and he doesn’t take it personally, but as he is leaving, Sherlock quietly calls his name. Robbie turns and stands by Sherlock’s bedside.  
“Robbie,” Sherlock whispers “May I ask a significant favour of you?”  
“Of course” Robbie says “anything you want.”  
“I am an old man, and my health has been bad for some time, but I don’t believe that I’m going to make it through the night. I understand that it is a lot to ask, but I don’t want to die alone. Will you sit and wait with me tonight?”  
Robbie is taken aback and at a loss for words, but he nods dumbly and Sherlock looks grateful and relived. In his time at the home, Robbie has discovered that when a resident says it is their time, they are usually right, and so he goes about his tasks with a heavy heart.  
That evening when his shift has ended, he returns to Sherlock’s room to find him sitting. as always, in his bed staring out the window.  
“Thank you” Sherlock says quietly. “I was wondering if you’d be willing to read to me from his blog? Some of the earlier entries I should think, so that I may remember a happier time”  
And so Robbie does. He reads to Sherlock well into the night, but finally pauses to take a sip of his coffee and sees that Sherlock has drifted off to sleep. Robbie promised that he would stay, so after a quick trip to the toilet, he settles back in the chair and continues silently reading through the blog entries one by one. Eventually, Robbie dozes off. He is awoken sometime later by a hoarse, panicked whisper.  
“John? Is that you John?” Robbie opens his eyes to see Sherlock watching him with half-focused eyes. After a moment of indecision, Robbie answers “Yes, Sherlock.” and impulsively reaches up to take his hand. Sherlock stares at their joined hands for a long moment before looking back at Robbie.  
“John – I “ and for a moment, Robbie is worried that Sherlock is going to start raving again, but he just sighs and says “I missed you terribly. It’s been so hard here without you. I can’t stand it.” and he continues on like that for awhile; rambling at length about the tragedy of his life after John’s disappearance, but every once in awhile touching on some fond memory of their too brief time together. Throughout his ramblings, Sherlock dips in and out of coherency, but it’s clear that he’s always talking to John. After an indeterminable amount of time, Sherlock swerves into permanent incoherency mumbling his slurred thoughts and scattered memories. As Sherlock drifts off he murmurs “I’m sorry John. I failed you and I’m so sorry.”, and then is quite. Soon after, Robbie follows him into sleep.  
When Robbie wakes in the morning, the hand in his is cold and lax, and he takes a deep breath and wills himself not to cry. 

Sherlock had no living family or friends, so the nursing home arranges a small memorial service. It’s sparsely attended and Robbie wonders if he’s the only one here who’d ever even spoken to Sherlock. Robbie has a moment of rage over the paltry event: Sherlock had deserved so much more than this.  
With the exception of one woman a few years older than him, Robbie recognizes everyone there as either a patient or staff from the home. She’s staring silently at the photographs that the staff had arranged for the event. Most of the pictures depict Sherlock weathered and unsmiling, but there’s one photograph of Sherlock standing next to a short blond man who Robbie realizes must be John because they both look so blindingly happy that it brings tears to Robbie’s eyes. This is the photograph the woman is staring at. He takes a deep breath an approaches the her.  
“Did you know him?” he says.  
The woman looks briefly startled, but then composes herself and replies “Not really. He used to steal body parts and conduct experiments in the morgue where my mother worked. I wasn’t there often, a morgue really isn’t the kind of place for a kid so I only met him a couple of times.”  
“Was John ever with him?” Robbie asks  
“Once.” She says slowly “The first time. I remember Sherlock being happy and a little odd but friendly. He showed me the experiment he was working on and explained it to me, and John said something, I don’t remember what, but I remember Sherlock laughing and just looking at John like he was his whole world. Sometime after that, John disappeared and it was like Sherlock was a whole different person. He was cold and closed off and I remember being quite afraid of him.”  
“But they’re together now, at least.” Robbie says  
The woman looks uncomfortable for a moment “Oh, well, I don’t believe in-“  
“They have to be!” Robbie interrupts, suddenly quite convinced of this “That can’t just be the end. It can’t just be the unanswered question where they never see each other again. They have to be together now. And before he died– They just– There’s no other way it makes sense.”  
The woman stares at him for a long moment, and then as if humoring a child replies “I suppose you’re right.”


	2. Alternate ending

It’s late one evening and Sherlock is curled up in John’s chair staring at the telly without really watching the crap programme that’s been playing for the better part of the last hour when he hears a knock on the door. He frowns and hesitates for a moment unsure of who would be calling on him at this late hour - Mrs. Hudson’s been asleep for two hours and besides she tends to just let herself in. He pulls himself up from the chair and pads over to pull the door open.  
“John.” the name escapes him as less a word than a rush of air. But there John is standing in his doorway as he’s imagined a thousand times these last many months looking tired, and dirty, and bedraggled, and bearded, and altogether too thin, and like the best thing Sherlock has ever seen. John offers him a smile, it’s a small tired thing, but it makes Sherlock’s rapidly beating heart glow. They stand there staring at each other for several long moment before Sherlock remembers himself and babbles  
“God, come in— sit down. Jesus you look… Are you alright? Are you hurt in anyway. Can I get you anything? Some water perhaps?”  
John slumps onto sofa, a small wry smile on his face, and look up at Sherlock who’s nervously moving around him, but not quite touching.  
“I’m alright.” John says in a worn, tired voice, and Sherlock aches to hear it after all this time. “I mean, I’m probably a mess, but there’s nothing time and rest won’t fix. Water would be brilliant, thanks.” He looks down at himself and with palpable disgust in his voice says “and then probably a shower”  
Sherlock rushes to the kitchen to get John’s glass of water. He closes his eyes to savor the moment their fingers brush when he hands John the glass. He then sits on the sofa several inches away from John. After draining the glass, John eyes the distance between them  
“I’d really like to hug you” he says, and Sherlock moves forward enthusiastically, “but” John says raising a hand to stop him “I’m absolutely disgusting right now” Sherlock shifts towards John to indicate how little he cares about that. “Sherlock, I’m going to go take a shower, because I really need one, and once I get you in my arms, I’m never going to want to let you go.”  
As Sherlock watches John heave himself up from the couch and trudge to the bath, he finds he’s okay with this.  
Sherlock sits outside the bathroom door listening to John shower taking in every sound John makes, every shift, every affirmation of his presence. John doesn’t talk except for asking if he can use Sherlock toothbrush because “I see you’ve kept mine, but I’m pretty sure there’s something growing on it.”, but the sounds of life emanating from the room are almost enough for Sherlock.  
When Sherlock hears John finishing up, he rushes over to the bed and, suddenly feeling inexplicably nervous about coming on too strongly, pulls a book from the bedside table and opens it to a random page. He looks up when John comes out of the bathroom clean shaven and wearing a pair of pajamas Sherlock had left lying on the floor.  
“God, I feel so much better” John says, the looks at Sherlock and smiles “I know you’re not reading that.”  
“No you don’t” Sherlock retorts “How?”  
“You’d never read one of my books, you call them drivel, and besides, I’m pretty sure that book mark is where I left it anyway” John says with a grin. Sherlock smiles up at him and puts the book back on the table. John walks over to the side of the bed so he stands directly next to Sherlock.  
“I think I’m ready for that hug now” he says quietly and opens his arms. Sherlock wastes no time pulling John down directly on top of him and snaking his arms tightly around John’s waist as he buries his nose in John’s too long hair. He doesn’t mind the weight of John dropping on his chest, but he does mind the way that he can feel John’s ribs through the thin shirt.  
“We need to feed you up.” He murmurs into John’s hair. John just grunts in acknowledgement.  
“I’ll tell you tomorrow, okay?” John says, and Sherlock understands the seeming non-sequitur  
“Whenever you’re ready, John” he mumbles stroking the back of John hair and John snuffles into his collar bone and falls off to sleep. Sherlock stays up a good hour or so more memorizing the feeling of John’s body on top of his own, but when the file is carefully stored away in his mind palace, he falls asleep as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there's no real solution for what actually happened to John. Frankly speaking, nothing I could come up with seemed satisfying (or I doubted my ability to write it in a satisfying way).


End file.
